Oath Sworn, Oath Broken
by Silmarilz1701
Summary: "Men and women, eyes as fiery as the torches, looked upon eight figures in awe, wonder, and admiration. But the lady looked upon them in sadness only."


**Oath Sworn, Oath Broken**

 **Nerdanel**

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 **By Silmarilz1701**

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The lady's red hair blew in the wind of the darkness of the eternal night. She stood upon a rooftop, and though stars twinkled far above her, jewels of Varda's own hand, the lights below her seemed far more powerful. A thousand torches, each blazing with yellow and red flames, danced on the streets and steps of Tirion. Men and women, eyes as fiery as the torches, looked upon eight figures in awe, wonder, and admiration. But the lady looked upon them in sadness only. Tears silently fell across her skin, glistening in the torch light. Beside her stood many, but none took notice of her. All eyes remained trained on the commotion.

The tallest of the eight was also her eldest, and one who shared her red locks. When she had known him as a child, he had always been eager to do everything. But never rash, no. Maitimo had merely been excited, emphatic about joining his father in the forges. Now that eagerness had led to this.

Beside him and slightly behind stood her dark haired second son. Makalaurë, the most beautiful singer and poet she had ever known. Even those who weren't his mother said such things. He brought her tremendous pride, and of all the sons she had brought into the world, she connected with him most. Yet now he seemed a million miles away.

Tyelkormo, the animal lover that he was, stood flanked by Huan on his left. The great hound and her third son, inseparable since meeting, never parted from the other's side. So it seemed particularly meaningful that though Huan heeled, he did not appear comfortable. If that didn't say anything for the dreadful deeds her family now committed to, she didn't know what would.

On the other side, Carnistir's cheeks blazed with the red glow she felt all too familiar with. Yet also he stood alone among his brothers. For of all seven, he seemed least inclined to mingle. But the fury in his eyes frightened her at that moment, like it had never done before. The grip on his sword turned his knuckles white, in stark contrast to his ruddy face.

By Tyelkormo's other side stood her fifth son. Curufinwë, for he cared not for the name she had given him of Atarincë, seemed nearly indistinguishable from his father in the flickering torchlight. But she, his mother, knew his silhouette. Ever had the two been compared, even since birth. She had not known her husband when he was born, but even she had pictured Curufinwë becoming like him. And alas, he had become too alike. Rash, eager for glory, filled with emotions that he did not know how to process, Curufinwë now rushed head first into a quest he knew not how to handle.

The shortest and slightest of the eight stood side by side as always they did. The Ambarussa, she had named them. Ambarto, though she still called him Umbarto when no one listened, stood beside his elder twin, closer to the center of their group. Her heart dropped when she saw him draw swords alongside his brothers. He was fated for something, though she knew not what. And the other, Minya, as their companions often called the first twin, appeared perhaps even more eager. Her tears wept most of them, her youngest children.

And at the center of it all, with sword high and torchlight splashed on his face, stood the elf lord she loved. His fine features, now drawn in fury, masked the pain she knew he felt within. She knew, better than anyone, how much his father the High King had meant to him. Finwë was Fëanáro's world. The only thing that had come close to his love for his father was love of the jewels, the Silmarils. And now both were gone, and even she could not fill that void.

Of all inhabitants of Aman, she alone could refuse Fëanáro of anything. He was too prideful, too wound like a bowstring pulled back. But she tempered him, if anything she _matched_ him blow for blow. And yet, as the lies of the Enemy wove their way through Fëanáro's mind, even she meant less than protecting that which he held most dear: Finwë and his jewels.

She had lost Fëanáro long before this fateful night, but as the shouting and screaming below intensified, and the figures began raising swords to the stars far above, she choked on her tears. For now she was losing the seven most precious gems of her world.

Nerdanel lost her sons.


End file.
